


Little Does He Know

by JamesJenkins9



Category: Everybody Hates Chris (TV)
Genre: Boys In Love, Bullying, Childhood Memories, Coming of Age, Enemies to Lovers, Erotica, Frenemies, Friends With Benefits, Interracial Relationship, Italian Character(s), Junior High, M/M, Queer Youth, Racism, Secret Admirer, Sex, Study Date, Underage Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-23
Updated: 2020-02-23
Packaged: 2021-02-28 03:54:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,927
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22867444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JamesJenkins9/pseuds/JamesJenkins9
Summary: Despite the animosity, racial divide and contrasting personalities-bully and victim just can't keep the other out of sight and mind. Will an unexpected study session only drive Joey and Chris further apart or closer together? Taking place during Season 2.
Relationships: Chris/Joey Caruso
Comments: 4
Kudos: 24





	1. Chapter 1

His house phone rang late one Saturday afternoon in August.

"Hey Cornbread," his voice, familiar and irritating, as if he was disgusted at having to stoop to calling Chris. "I need help studying for the Science test next week. Bring your nerd ass over and help me."

It was the first time 13-year-old Chris Rock heard the ginger nightmare of Corleone Junior High, Joey Caruso, speak since the Friday before in their final class, Biology, and the asshole was all but unchanged. He still spoke to Chris in even more harshly cryptic demands, intimidating and snobbishly self-confident, as he believed he was to everyone. It was really crazy what hard-ass white parents and a dog-eat-dog near lack of intelligence could do to a boy's ego—especially for one that was apparently as commanding and crafty as Caruso. Chris wasn't too terribly impacted, having moved to Bed-Stuy, NY for better opportunities in life, but from what he's experienced, the Italian community was one of toughness and knowing when to show respect to one's friendly rival.

Caruso seemed to have really embodied that aspect of his lineage.

"How about no, you rude jerk?" Chris replied. He was sick of the bully's crap and had been since entering the 7th grade. His Mom had informed-aka lectured- him before starting eighth grade, when they moved from their compact, bedroom-community to the predatory junior high school in city limits, that he was not the only black kid thugs like Caruso would prowl for. There would be competition, she told Chris, and he needed to stay on his guard if he wanted to remain on the good side of his teachers and peers had put him on up until that point. What Chris neglected to tell his Mom was that he hated being alienated for not just his race-but character and brains—he had only a handful of "friends," and an even smaller number of genuine companions. Unfortunately, his parents expected him to rise above the rest, and he was not going to destroy his Mom's picturesque little dream of good schools and successful futures, even though she did have Chris and his siblings scared of her half the time.

Chris really didn't have any problem with antagonism, for he figured he'd have to deal with it at some point or another. What really irked him was the antagonist himself—Caruso, whose family had migrated to the United States from war-torn Italy during WWII. He definitely appeared to be his namesake; white pasty skin and eyes a dark green, an ominous tone that matched his short but curly ginger hair. In spite of his racist attitude, however, Caruso was just as American as everyone else. He commonly addressed and insulted Chris with the use of slang, slurs, and general outright stereotypes, and actively did his best to piss everyone off. Joey Caruso was the reason that teachers never curved their tests or gave struggling students anything less than the maximum amount of homework every night. Chris certainly didn't mind the extra workload, but he detested Caruso's white privilege haughtiness, especially regarding the junior high class ranks—every year since they first met, Caruso's test scores placed him at the bottom of the pyramid academically.

Chris was the step above. Though always treated second class.

Not only was he sick of Caruso's crap, he was also sick of being made to feel inferior.

"Oh, I'm sorry," Caruso snorted. "I forgot about what a jumpy bitch you are. I'm not calling to mock you, Chris. I'm actually having trouble with this class. Biology and I just don't mix."

Chris huffed and crossed one long, slender leg over another on his bedspread. He was working on some English and History homework that he'd missed from being ill with sore throat earlier in the week. He'd planned to use the weekend for playing catch-up, but it seemed that wasn't going to be the case anymore. "Can't I just help you over the phone?" He bartered, desperate to finish his own schoolwork—and also desperate not to see his terror-inducing rival on his down time. "You live in the middle of town, and it's a pain to walk over to your house. Not to mention a black kid on the street's live bait." Both Chris and Joey were 8th graders, but Chris was the only one that had the best grades. He was one of the few bright stars that stuck out, but got grief still, and that was all he needed. Caruso, regardless of being a bully, was not all that clever. His parents were hard-working business people—a quality which Chris assumed a real mean streak grew, clearly so in the Carusi case—and they hated either family insults or high taxes. Joey and Chris were polar opposites, but still not yet out of junior high school; thus, they continued to rely on their parents for support, even when it wasn't all too helpful. Chris were simply more down-to-earth, and he appreciated this as something he had that Caruso did not.

"I'll make it worth your time," Caruso assured. When Chris grimaced at that phrase, he sensed the black boy's distaste. "And no, I'm not being an ass about money, either. Really I'll pay you back for every minute. Just... I need help, okay? I know I never say that, but it's true. I swear."

For a moment, Chris was silent as he flipped pages of a random book sitting on the bedside table. He considered his offer—at first nervously, until it dawned on him that the infamous Joey Caruso was asking for help, and he would get front-row seats to him begging. The taste of victory in his mouth was brief but sweet, a glorious honey, but he refused to let this small triumph get to him. He was going to win this fight, but Caruso was far ahead of him in the war. Still, Chris relished in the thought of getting to see the feared bully grovel at his feet for his intellectual skills. Sure, maybe ignoring him and hoping he'd fail the Bio test was better in the long run, but Chris preferred to live for the "now" instead of the dreaded "later." Besides, Caruso would probably pull another high score out of his ass as he always did, whether or not he even bothered to use his textbook as anything more than a weapon to hit Chris with.

Chris slid off her bed, proudly and excitedly convinced. "All right, Caruso, I'm coming," he said, trying to mask his anticipation. Dressing for the occasion, he put his backpack over his left shoulder as he reached for his black shoes, in twenty minutes Chris was perched by the Caruso door in wait. "Are your parents home? Will they mind if we study together?" He pulled on his left shoe and began to fumble with the strings.

"No," Caruso responded, nearly throwing a kink in the knot Chris was tying from his surprise. "My parents are hardly ever home. They're usually on call or out to take care of family business." He sounded surprised, as if intrigued that Chris didn't know, though Chris was floored at the thought of Caruso's iron-jawed relatives leaving him alone for days at a time. They hardly trusted him with the apartment—why would they hand over the control of the family home to a teenage boy? Chris was momentarily confused, but he shrugged the notion off and finished putting on his shoes.

"Really? They leave you alone in the house?" Chris scoffed as he reached for the house keys resting on his bedside table. "Do you have meetings with your Chaos Crew while they're away or something?"

"Funny, Lakeside," he grunted. "Because we both know how many friends I've got."

Chris flinched. His tone was rough, but he was aware that Caruso was right. Caruso, due in part to his low aptitude, had minimal albeit confrontational social skills. As a result, he had few people to truly call his companions. Chris saw him sitting at lunch with a handful of other jerks, but to his knowledge, he wasn't very close with any of them. Chris himself was thankful for his friendship with Greg Wuliger, but understood his alienation. Chris often forgot that while he had been placed high above everyone else on a pedestal, Caruso was there always seeming to follow him like a magnet.

Plus it was lonely at the top.


	2. Chapter 2

Two-thirds of the way to Caruso's house, Chris began to wonder why his longtime bully had waited so long to ask for help. Initially, he pegged it on his arrogance and his inability to put his mind to work reading, but he decided something else was up. The Biology test was that coming Wednesday, after all, and the five-hour-long exam would be a huge strain if he understood nothing that was being taught in the class. Surely, being Joey Caruso, he had a firm grasp on something—but even if he didn't, why invite 𝘍𝘭𝘪𝘱𝘴 aid? Why not be tutored by a teacher? Caruso wasn't in any after-school clubs or sports, so there was no doubt in Chris mind that he was able to seek out a tutor. Asking Chris was definitely mysterious, especially regarding the animosity between them.

Chris was full of questions, but there were no answers to be found.

The buildings in the Italian section of town gradually trickled from the concrete thicket of downtown, where Chris family lived in a relatively comfortable albeit crazy apartment, to the suburbs that ringed the outskirts. It took ten minutes or so of braving deadly city streets, but he passed from the focal point of income to the slums in the middle, dodging the suspicious eyes of dark-clothed gang thugs that hung around on the graffiti-drowned street corners, waiting for unsuspecting young prey like him. Finally, he passed through the grim danger of the inner city into the Little Italy community of the enormously affluent, where manicured lawns and large complexes were spoken for and even considered poor in this neighborhood. As Chris drove deeper into the intimidating area, searching for Caruso's street, he felt like a sitting duck out of place. Chris hadn't gotten kicked around too much by Caruso in weeks, and a healing bruise on his right cheek was prominent on his black skin. His mind was programmed by now to almost tell when Caruso's daily beat down would come, and he was walking in a neighborhood where he most likely wouldn't leave alive.

Hunkering down—as he did in the slums, but for an entirely different reason this time—Chris tried to hide his embarrassment as he walked into the wide circular courtyard at Caruso's enormous complex. Naturally, his family's sprawling, four-story building was infinitely more chic than the ones he'd passed by, only reminding him of the lifestyle Caruso was raised in. Chris pulled up and picked a spot fairly well-removed from the sidewalk that led to the huge metal front door and parked, fairly disgusted at the fact that he could hear other tenants still shouting vile language against the thin walls of the hallway leading to Caruso's apartment. Would they notice he was here? Would they kick his ass? His stomach hurt all of a sudden and he fast-walked down in the dimly lit hall, not wanting to get out and show his scared face.

"Ugh, whatever, man", he told herself as he finally pushed his way down the horror movie-looking hall. It's just to study. No big deal. No need to shake like a leaf.

Stiffly, Chris stalked up to the front door, trying not to be coerced by the yawning dirty glass window directly at the end of the too-big hall. Chris rang the doorbell and paused, glancing into the casement to pass the time until he realized it was one-way—disappointing, he thought, as he couldn't get an advanced peek of the foyer. A minute after he rang, his patience was rewarded with an unlatching sound coming from inside. The door—which Chris was now certain he wouldn't be able to move on his own—swung open in a wide arc, revealing a pair of dark green, 𝘩𝘶𝘯𝘨𝘳𝘺 eyes that met on an even level with his. Caruso, he remembered, was no taller than him, though Chris was far above the average teenage boy in height at nearly five feet, ten inches tall. His thin lips pursed together, as if blatantly annoyed by Chris presence. Distinctly, Chris felt a physical sting at his aloofness. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘢𝘴𝘬𝘦𝘥 𝘮𝘦 𝘵𝘰 𝘤𝘰𝘮𝘦 𝘰𝘷𝘦𝘳, 𝘙𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘥 𝘔𝘤𝘋𝘰𝘯𝘢𝘭𝘥.

Shifting the collar of his red-striped shirt, Caruso assessed him with his dark, penetrating gaze. Chris briefly wondered how much that shirt had cost. "Hey, Chris," he said, cold as a winter gale force wind.

Chris gave him a plastic pho-smile. "Hey, Caruso," he responded.

They stood there in a state of bitterness, the air around them dense with a thick fog of animosity, before the Italian boy finally capitulated and opened his front door wider with a sigh. "Come in, I guess," he said. "I've got the books in the kitchen. We can sit at the table and study there."

Calmly, Chris stepped in, pretending not to be fazed by the yawning lobby of Caruso's small apartment, silently worried the room would swallow him whole. Taking his shoes off by the horsehair welcome mat, he shuffled in and skimmed his eyes over the worn granite tile and the thinning teal wallpaper, a brass chandelier dangling dangerously nearly a story above him. A wraparound spiral kitchen led to the main rooms, widely-set and reminding Chris of a fancy commercial-like sort one might see in a TV show. No, Chris, he told himself tartly as Caruso closed the door behind them. 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘯 𝘢 𝘱𝘢𝘭𝘢𝘤𝘦. 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘪𝘯 𝘨𝘰𝘥𝘥𝘢𝘮𝘯𝘦𝘥 𝘑𝘰𝘦𝘺 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘰'𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘩𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵. 𝘛𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘦, 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘪𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘭𝘭 𝘰𝘧 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵. 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘪𝘮𝘱𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘦𝘥 𝘰𝘳 𝘫𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘰𝘶𝘴 𝘰𝘧 𝘩𝘪𝘮.

Caruso, sensing his uneasiness, opened his mouth to comment snidely, but a glare from his black peer made him choke it back. "This way," he instructed, haughtily familiar with the fact that Chris had never been in a place like his. He walked into a compact hallway to the right of the stairs, consumed by the looming, gross walls. Reluctantly, Chris followed him, expecting the trek to the kitchen to be filled with racist comments. However, he found that the small passage led directly to the room. In spite of his false indifference to the stainless stone counter-tops and three-basin sink, Chris found himself truly intrigued with the size of the refrigerator. His mind meandered as he daydreamed about the delicious, Italian foods that were hiding inside. Lasagna? Expensive fine cheese? Fettuccine Alfredo? Oh God, his stomach was getting aroused.

"Can we eat something if we get hungry?" Chris inquired as Caruso pulled a chair up to the glass kitchen table in the center of the exceptional cluster of supplies and appliances, one of the twelve seats available. A slew of various objects—various study guides, their Biology textbook, and a few slips of paper and pencils for taking notes—were strewn about on its clear surface like Halloween candy.

Caruso frowned at his cheeky inquiry, but took it in stride. "Sure 𝘚𝘢𝘮𝘮y, whatever," he said, shrugging. "It's almost dinnertime anyway. You didn't eat before you came?"

"No," he said. "It's only four. I don't usually eat until six or so."

"I'll order us some food when we're done," Caruso promised, and Chris almost couldn't believe his ears. Caruso, being nice? Yet another shock to add to the piling confusions of the day. He considered raising protest and offering to pay for his own meal, but immediately retracted that notion. If Caruso was going to make decent attempts at kindness, he figured he might as well ride the wave the entire time. Chris wasn't normally the type of person to take advantage of others, but this was too good to pass up. Besides, his family had the same struggles with money as everyone else, so he doubted it would even be a dent in his piggy bank.

"Okay," Chris accepted, trying hard to mask his excitement. He made his way to the table, pulled up a chair, and sat down. "Let's get to work, then, so we can work up an appetite. What are you having trouble on?"

"Sex," Caruso said. He flipped to that particular section of the worn Biology textbook, licking his right thumb and deftly fingering through the pages. "I know we learned it a while ago, but I never got a grasp on the terms. Science isn't really my thing. I'm more of a... trial and error kind of guy." Chris was unnerved by his calm attitude and offhanded tone. Yes, he spoke aggressively to other people, but when it came to academics, he was usually stone-faced and flustered. He was surprisingly cool about having no idea what the hell they was studying in a class, and that utterly confused him.

"And I'm a Black Panther", he internally quipped.

"..." The pause between them was short but noticeable in its strained character. Caruso glanced up from the textbook, having reached the chapter on sexual values, and arched one ginger eyebrow in an arrogant sort of curiosity. Numb to his phony act, Chris shook his head and stifled the mounting sense of suspicion within him. "Let's get started," he relented, reaching over to take a peek at the pages, gauging what needed to be covered. Chris leaned over far enough to thumb through the material that he realized he was fairly close to Caruso—close enough to catch a whiff of his presumably cheap cologne, an unmistakable strong scent that made him wonder if he was a yeti instead of a pathetic excuse for a human being. Chris froze for a second when he swore he heard Caruso's breath hitch at the base of his throat; a soft rumble, barely noticeable.

Before he had time to mull too long over his position, Chris rested an elbow on the glass table and spoke, balancing his knees on the chair to keep himself from toppling over. "The term CERTS," he said. "We'll start there. What does it mean?"

Caruso cleared his throat. "Well..." he began, losing his voice to some unseen force—confusion?—before moving on. "Consensual, Egalitarian, Respect, Trust and Safety. That's easy. I just don't care about the sentimental crap. I'd appreciate it if you explained the good stuff to me." Quickly, Chris felt the ghost of his gaze travel across the plane of his body, from his fine black leather shoes to the ruffled sleeves of his green shirt. Suddenly, Chris remembered this shirt was a bit low-cut, curving down an opening to the deep crevice beneath his t-shirt. His best friend Greg had noticed Chris package in the school changing room the week earlier, trying to convince Chris that he needed to attract more girls in his life.

It came to Chris that he wasn't trying to entice one such Joey Caruso.

As if jolted by static shock, Chris fell back into his chair, adjusting himself to a less comfortable and casual position, aligning his back so that his chest was tucked in just enough to project his dignity. Caruso watched him with feigned interest, confusion flashing by briefly in his eyes—or was that amusement? With this sadistic asshole, Chris could never tell.

"You done 𝘊𝘰𝘤𝘰𝘢 𝘗𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘴?" He asked, still unsmiling but with a lecherous note of mirth in his tone.

Chris frowned deeply and pursed his thick, caramel-colored lips, refusing to take his bait like a naive rat and answer. At that moment, hardly overpowered by Caruso's snotty glee and the suffocating threatening atmosphere overall, he tartly recalled the great rift between them—in terms of money, status, race, and most of all, personality. The only thing that could potentially bridge that chasm was their shared determination, and Chris knew from experience that like-minded people hated each other by default. There was too much competition; in spite of the frustrating loneliness to superiority, there was nothing a talented person disliked more than a worthy foe. Even Chris, who swore differently to himself, sometimes fell plague to envy. It was an illness that consumed him—especially when it came in the form of Caruso.

The brief peep show was a stinging slap in the face of the reality of his situation with Caruso. Chris guard was down, and it needed to be brought back up. 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘨𝘦, 𝘊𝘩𝘳𝘪𝘴, 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘊𝘢𝘳𝘶𝘴𝘰'𝘴 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘙𝘰𝘮𝘦. 𝘏𝘦'𝘴 𝘵𝘩𝘦 𝘙𝘰𝘮𝘢𝘯 𝘓𝘦𝘨𝘪𝘰𝘯. 𝘠𝘰𝘶 𝘬𝘦𝘦𝘱 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘴𝘩𝘪𝘵 𝘰𝘶𝘵.

Clearing his throat and crossing his arms over his chest in a further attempt to conceal himself, Chris chose to move on with their lesson. "Corpora Cavernosa's one of the main terms, so we'll begin with that," he said, only now aware of the sharp edge to his voice. "It's spongy cylinders in the penis that get congested with blood and hard during arousal. You get all that?" His throat was so dry an old poster could have gotten glued on his skin. Chris swallowed audibly and was all but aware of Caruso's silent and assessing eyes, dark as his green eyes and his sociopath spirit, watching his chocolate neck shift.

"Fuck yeah," he murmured. He spoke very lowly—a hum so indistinct Chris swore he'd have to be a psychic to hear it. "I wasn't born yesterday 𝘉𝘰𝘫𝘢𝘯𝘨𝘭𝘦𝘴, I know what it feels like getting an eyeful of pussy ."

Chris surprised scowl was etched deeper on his face. "Chill Caruso," he said, now thoroughly displeased. Well, more bitter toward the bully than he had been prior, if that was even possible. "How much do you not know?"

Caruso was quiet. Somewhere, perhaps in another room, Chris heard the measured ticking of a clock, followed posthaste by a series of four chimes, then another to indicate that it was a quarter past the hour. For some strange reason, his surroundings bottomed out at his socks, and he was left sitting uncomfortably upright in his chair, wondering what other weird shit went on inside Caruso's home. Those were his only thoughts—weird shit, and why the hell Caruso was staring at him with such grave intensity, a sudden fire erupting behind his still irises. As if a witch called upon the invisible flame, an uncertainty bounced off the sides of Chris brain, refusing to be quieted until surrendering to them:


	3. Chapter 3

𝘞𝘩𝘺 𝘢𝘮 𝘐 𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘭𝘺 𝘩𝘦𝘳𝘦?

"You look thirsty." Chris was jarred back to reality with his bully's flat monotone. "Want a glass of water?"

The sandy texture on Chris tongue and throat reminded him of drinking and how parched he really was—whether it was out of need or nervousness, he wasn't entirely sure. Unable to respond, he simply nodded, and Caruso calmly got up from the table and walked with his long, confident gait to the set of counters behind them. Chris watched him as he stretched his arm to reach a small glass cup on a shelf above the spotless steel sink, every sinew of his big-boned muscle suddenly catching Chris attention in a way that never happened before. Baffled by his lapse in judgment, Chris squeezed his eyes shut, as if trying to dissolve the image with a single blink. But when he opened them again, the situation was only in his head—immediately, he inadvertently studied the way his chubby fingers arched over the glass it was filled with water from the tap and the manner in which he sauntered back over to Chris with his huge legs.

Before he could question his sudden notice of Joey Caruso, 𝘰𝘧 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘱𝘦𝘰𝘱𝘭𝘦, he slid the glass of crystal-clear liquid into her hands. Chris glanced up at him, begrudgingly thankful as he took a tentative sip. The cool water slid down his throat, quenching his thirst and turning the grating sand into mud. It tasted so good that he began to gulp, large swigs nearly overflowing in his mouth. Chris perceived a droplet trickle down his chin, but he was so focused on his drink that he hardly noticed the moist streak. With a flicker, Chris saw Caruso examining his actions out of the top corner of his eyes, having not moved an inch since giving his the cup. As he drained the last few drops from the bottom, tipping his head back, he thought he saw Caruso's tongue dart out and slowly lick his own lips, strangely pink in spite of his pasty-colored skin.

Chris nearly dropped the glass. 𝘋𝘪𝘥 𝘩𝘦 —

"Done?" Caruso inquired impatiently. Without allowing Chris even a meager answer, he swiped the glass from the black boy's grasp and placed it on the table beside him. "Can we get back to with the study session now, or do you need another glass 𝘊𝘰𝘳𝘯𝘣𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘥?"

Chris glowered. He couldn't even be hospitable for six minutes. "Not until you answer my question from before, carrot-head," he spat, the bizarre connection between them fading to a dull throb in his left temple. "This 𝘴𝘵𝘶𝘥𝘺 𝘴𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘰𝘯 seems like a load of crap, if you ask me. You told me you didn't know anything about sex, and yet you just spewed information about it that you wouldn't have remembered if you've never read a porno before. I think you're doing A okay in that camp and you'll land an A on the test, because you're Joey Caruso and some twisted psycho wonder."

Caruso smirked.

"And no, that's not a compliment man," Chris snapped.

"What exactly are you getting at?" Caruso asked. "I literally have no clue what I'm doing, Chris. I thought I told you that over the phone." Rage flared within Chris at his words, tinged with sarcasm and obvious tension. He was baiting Chris, the asshole! He'd been foolish enough to go for it, regardless of his previous warnings to himself. Caruso was a weasel crafty son of a bitch, pulling the rug right out from under him before Chris realized he'd fallen down the hole. Somehow, though, Chris wasn't keen to the idea of falling into the trap. He needed answers, and if he had to play Caruso's twisted game to get them, so be it.

"You know exactly what I'm trying to say, so stop playing dumb, Caruso," he said. "Why am I really here? If not to study or be one of your providers of entertainment, then what?"

Stillness, like a hunting lion, was passed between them once more, and Chris was reminded of the clock in the other room as the wasted seconds ticked by. The sound seemed louder than before, screaming as the sand in the gears sounds sank further into his soul, keeping time with his heartbeat. For the first time since he had arrived at his house, Chris made eye contact with Caruso—and held it with unflinching control. The heat from minutes prior had returned in his steadfast gaze, amplified by his slowly dilating pupils, consuming him as if Chris had thrown a torch on his mental pyre. The arrogant, bullying ginger boy probably wasn't used to people standing up to him, Chris ventured—but from the stubborn, rebellious way Caruso looked at him, he looked as if he was enjoying it to the full.

Out of nowhere, Chris was bombarded with the memory of his ex-flame Tasha, a dream always seemingly beyond reach. She was tall and lively (and beautiful, he remembered passionately), and Chris had met her through a class leadership organization at school when she had recently moved to the neighborhood, a group she'd been active in for a while. The same age as him, she was light in every sense of the word except weight—almost bottle-figured, brown eyes, and a sensual build. She was a sweetheart and did everything with an air of confidence, Chris had fallen for her almost instantly. Because of rumors that got out of hand, he had botched his and her reputations, but Chris was sincere enough to apologize to her. Maybe he'd been attracted to her warmth and kindness, or maybe it was his unintended manner of courtship; whatever the reason for her feelings, he loved her dearly. Chris was even sexually enticed by Tasha, excited when he did her a favor taking care of the dead mouse in her closet, a kiss being his reward. Eventually, Tasha's grandmother Louise warned him to steer clear of her, but they agreed to keep their feelings private. She was nothing more than a story to him now, a tale to reminisce about with himself once in a while.

Here he was, staring into the mouth of the beast—into Joey Caruso's eyes, the portal to the soul—completely entranced, and he wasn't sure why. Chris hadn't liked enough white people to classify a 𝘵𝘺𝘱𝘦, but he was pretty sure Caruso's staggering racist ignorance did rank among them. He was the polar opposite of his first crush. If he had to assign realms to his ex and Caruso, they would be heaven and hell, respectively. His girlfriend had been a understanding, generous spirit, unselfish in her actions and persona. Caruso, meanwhile, was a storm of utter distaste, and the way he treated others was proof enough of his foul self. "He's a loon", Chris best friend Greg said of him once. "He should've been thrown to the fishes at birth."

But he was drawn. Neither of them were speaking, but as Caruso reached out to him, Chris knew what was coming. He was powerless to stop it, the control he'd once had now diminishing.

Chris was drawn—and perplexed.

His white fingers, strong and thick, curled around Chris right shoulder, brushing the ruffled sleeves with his usual air of disdain. This, however, was quickly covered by a different tone entirely, reflecting in the gaze staring so intently at Chris. It was heavy, half-lidded, and unbearable—Chris felt his body heat up, as if singed by the flame that was burning brighter by the second. His fingertips were cold in comparison, nearly burning Chris with the strange mix of temperatures. Leaning down slowly, his domineering self looming over Chris, Caruso pushed his face within a hair's breadth of Chris, the tips of their noses close to touching. Strain sparked almost perceptibly in the small space between them, and when Caruso opened his mouth to speak, Chris felt the steamy rush of the bully's breath on his left cheek.

"I hear..." His voice trailed off. Chris was strung like a wind-up toy, ready to spring at the slightest provocation, every muscle in his body tense with anticipation and thinly veiled rage and frustration.

But he wasn't sure where he would spring—backward, away from Caruso, or into him.

Caruso cleared his throat. His pupils grew yet larger as he awaited the completion of his own sentence, but never said a word. Chris never did get to figure out what he heard or any such sign, because Caruso's lips were on his before he had any time to react. His mouth was surprisingly soft and melted into the black boy's like butter on hot popcorn, and Chris found himself savoring it as if that was all it were. Emerging from the throes of his body, another wave of heat engulfed him as Caruso's tongue probed his, pleading for entrance. Either in a spur of the moment or total insanity, Chris parted his lips and allowed their mouths to tangle, a wet clashing of teeth and saliva that was shockingly erotic. The kiss, ravenous and lingering, was finally broken by Caruso as he pulled back, perhaps shocked by the rashness of his action. Chris took a hard look at his face and was amazed at how attractive it suddenly appeared with his breathing slightly labored and lips swollen—and how the small ripple was now an uncontrolled tidal wave of sheer lust.

Chris head was spinning too quickly to think rationally about how wrong this was—when he wasn't clouded with arousal he hadn't felt since he 𝘭𝘰𝘴𝘵 his girlfriend, he could've made a lengthy list of reasons why he shouldn't kiss Joey Caruso. But as his hand traveled slowly down from Chris right shoulder to his chest, slipping into the green fabric and grazing the soft flesh, he couldn't even drum up a shred of good sense. He barely felt Caruso lean in closer to his left ear as he cupped Chris excited groin, giving it a rough squeeze and eliciting a gasp from him.

"I hear," he continued from earlier, rolling a thumb over his right nipple, "that you're a bit of a perv. That interests me." He nipped at Chris earlobe in a manner that was almost playful.

In a moment of clarity, Chris found the strength to challenge him again, as she usually did. "I... I'm not a perv," he hissed, fighting with every ounce of might within him. "I don't put out for assholes like you." He'd been with one boy! How the hell had such a rumor started circulating? Sure, he'd been a little... dirty with Greg, of course, but what boy wasn't in a relationship? Tasha liked him before, so the sexual activity was justified. Maybe he was a bit of a nymphomaniac, but only with girls he believed to be beautiful and generous. In short, not a racist devil named Joey Caruso.

Still, he was paralyzed when Caruso's other hand, unoccupied until this moment, made a beeline for the snap of his pants, undoing it with suspicious agility. "Oh, is that so?" He breathed, an obvious snicker behind his voice. "Then you won't mind me doing this, I suppose." His fingers dipped beneath the waistline of Chris underwear—they were kinda damp today, he remembered uselessly—and glided over his sex. That single, swift motion made Chris realize how wet he really was. Chris never recalled being so turned on with his hated bully.

Lashing out, Chris grabbed Caruso's wrist, but by then, it was already too late. A spark, wholly electric, jolted him and caused stars to glint in the corners of his eyes. He moaned—𝘧𝘶𝘤𝘬, 𝘴𝘩𝘶𝘵 𝘶𝘱! 𝘠𝘰𝘶'𝘳𝘦 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘯𝘫𝘰𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘴!—and his grip slackened. Snapping his hand from Chris grasp easily, Caruso mockingly slid his finger repetitively over his engorged cock, and Chris had to bite his lip to keep from making any more noise. Chris made the brutal mistake of looking back into his eyes, and the vast glare of disdain and desire jumped out and consumed him from Caruso's emerald green stare. It was enough to stimulate him further, but he briefly came to his senses and slammed his thighs shut so as to give Caruso less leverage. Unfortunately (fortunately?), the pressure of his tightened skin only increased the friction, heightening the black boy's pleasure. Chris wanted to scream, both out of need, disbelief and anger.

"You're not helping yourself, you know," Caruso growled, yanking his shirt off of his torso in one swift tug. A satisfied purr rumbled from the back of his throat as he discovered Chris wasn't wearing an undershirt. Chris tended not to wear one when he was alone in the house and was mentally cursing himself for not remembering to put one on before he came to Caruso's apartment. As he got down on his knees and buried his face into Chris chest, his lips caressing all over until they were soaked and glistening with sweat, Chris came to the dull revelation that his bully was right: he really wasn't helping himself.

With that, Chris took the opportunity to taunt Caruso further. "I thought you were straight," he jeered breathlessly, sucking in a breath when he felt a single finger probe his entrance. "You guys don't do stuff like this until marriage, right?"

Caruso glanced up at him and pulled his mouth away from Chris left nipple, twinkling with interest. "Why don't you," he began as he promptly pulled Chris pants down, ensnaring them around his ankles, "Button my lip?" To ensure the expected silence from him, Caruso jammed the same hand that had been palming him with into Chris mouth, forcing his 𝘷𝘪𝘤𝘵𝘪𝘮 to taste himself. Shoving his digits down to the hilt of Chris throat, a cruel smile stretched across his face as he felt the black boy's gag reflex close around them. Chris was overcome by the sharp, bittersweet fluid coating his fingers, having not tasted himself since his last late night fantasy about—

In an instant, Caruso's face was no longer slightly above par with his and was instead between Chris legs, the tip of his tongue tantalizingly caressing him, lapping thirstily. 𝘞𝘢𝘯𝘵 𝘢 𝘴𝘰𝘥𝘢? His question from six minutes ago echoed distantly in Chris mind, now devoid of all situational logic and understanding, and he felt an ironic chuckle come on at that. However, it was quickly broken by the electrifying pulses of pleasure snaking throughout his nerves, making everything from Chris toes to his brain tingle with a foreign sensation. He sometimes imagined Tasha would've been good at oral, but Caruso was unbelievable—so unbelievable that when Chris felt the first twinges of his climax begin to build, he had to frantically grasp for the silky ginger tendrils of Caruso's hair to keep himself from shaking out of the chair. When he did cum, his entire body convulsed, shuddering with tremors so powerful that his hips bucked forward, nearly collapsing from the force of his orgasm. Caruso planted both hands on either side of Chris hips, holding him steady until his quivering died down, leaving him panting and winded, as if he ran a very long—and very satisfying—race.

Caruso stood up, and Chris saw his trademark half-smirk painted with the glistening shine of his juices, the wetness extending onto the white skin of his right cheek. Chris was strangely turned on by that; the image of his bully's face between his legs was one he'd constantly remember when passing him by in the hallway at school or exchanging a tense knowing glance with him during classes. Chris wasn't a perv, and his standards, though low, did not include Caruso. But this was a dirty little secret, and he was somehow willing to let this particular instance slide. Practically glued to the chair, Chris pants down by his feet and his lower half still soaking and exposed, Chris felt he still had enough of his dignity to stare up defiantly at his arch tormentor and mouth the phrase "I hate you" in silent mocking, the quiet words shaping around his full, tired lips.

Caruso laughed, deep and insulting. "You won't hate me after this, perv," he sneered. Reaching down, he calmly undid the zipper of his blue jeans with a swift, resounding—

*****

𝓑𝓐𝓜.

Chris was jerked awake by the abrupt noise, staring up at the blindingly white ceiling from his reclined position in shock. Quickly, he sat up, assessing his surroundings, the complexity of his former situation weighing down internally on him. With one blink and a minute of relative distress, he realized he was in his room, back at his family's apartment within the city limits—his desk and dresser in the corner, the old television with its familiarly crooked antennae, and the floor littered with various shoes and possessions alluded that he was no longer in Caruso's eerily confining (and maddening clean) apartment. He was even on his own bed, the twin size only allowing enough room for Chris and a pile of missed homework at the foot. Throwing a fleeting look over the edge, Chris discovered that his anatomy and Biology textbook had fallen to the floor, the source of the noise that had stirred him back to wonderful reality. The clock on his bedside table read 6 p.m. on the dot, indicating that he'd been out for more than an hour or two.

Chris let out a breath that he'd possibly been holding since he'd fallen asleep. 𝘐𝘵 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘢𝘭𝘭 𝘢 𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘢𝘮. Chris was flooded with a quiet breeze of relief, praising Jesus that Caruso did not follow for being merciful to him. Oh shit, what kind of a dream was that? Receiving head from his bully? He must've been going crazy from the lack of sexual contact. But that, of course, was what masturbation was for. Masturbation while not thinking of psycho Caruso, he thought as he slid off the bed, standing up and stretching, his muscles aching from his long nap. 𝘐'𝘭𝘭 𝘣𝘦𝘵 𝘩𝘦'𝘴 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘯 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥 𝘢𝘵 𝘰𝘳𝘢𝘭. 𝘏𝘦'𝘴 𝘵𝘰𝘰 𝘧𝘢𝘵 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘴𝘬𝘪𝘭𝘭𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘪𝘵𝘩 𝘩𝘪𝘴 𝘮𝘰𝘶𝘵𝘩 𝘭𝘪𝘬𝘦 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘵.

The second he bent down to touch his sock-covered toes, however, he noticed the hook of his table-side phone rang wildly, as loud as an ambulance, bringing his attention to a caller. Straightening his back, Chris headed over to where he'd laid it earlier, plausibly before passing out on his bed while doing homework. He had no clue who'd be calling at this time of the evening. Normally, he didn't answer those in fear of telemarketers or prank callers his parents hated, but with his sense of curiosity refreshed after a long nap, he decided to live dangerously. Chris held the received up to his ear and greeted the anonymous caller. "Hello?"

His voice, low and authoritative, flowed innocently into his ear. "Chris," he said. "I need help studying for the Biology test next week. Come over and help me."

**Author's Note:**

> I loved the series from the moment it aired. Noticed there are no Chris and Caruso stories and understand if nobody else ships them, but I always thought there was more to Caruso's constant bullying of Chris. Hope you enjoy it nonetheless. The events depicted in this story are fictitious. Any similarity to any person living or dead is merely coincidental. This is my first story based on the series, let me know what you think.


End file.
